


Tattoo

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [43]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But it's okay, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, John's an Idiot, M/M, i have no idea how to tag this story, like nothing actually happens in it, sherlock gets mad, well done there, what even are these tags, yay cey go promote your own works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3425198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the One Word Bottomjohn Prompt Series.</p><p>Sherlock and John get drunk. Hangovers and Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tattoo

"It’s not that—it’s not that—" John stops, finger in the air, and tries to remember what he was going to say. Across from him, half out of his chair, Sherlock gives a high-pitched giggle and sinks a little bit closer to the floor.

"Shhhh!" John hisses. "I’s not funny." The room does something strange and he’s suddenly leaning sideways. "Oh, bugger."

"John," Sherlock says. "I think I’m drunk."

"You are a geenus, aren’t you?" John agrees.

"Furthermore," Sherlock pronounces. His knees are almost completely folded under him, three inches from the floor. "Furthermore," he says again, pleased with how that came out. "I deduce. That you are drunk, as well."

"Pffffft," John says. "You’re drunk."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "I already said that." His knees meet the floor and gravity drags him the rest of the way down. He giggles, sprawled at the foot of his chair. "I deduced it."

John snorts indignantly at the accusation. “Not me,” he says, and pushes himself to his feet. “Not John Watson. I am not—” he veers sideways and runs into the mantle. “Okay. I am a little bit drunk.”

From the floor, Sherlock begins to giggle.

John ignores him. He staggers to the kitchen, grabbing the table along the way. The day’s detritus is still sitting there, emptied from their pockets before the various blood-and filth-covered garments had been shoved into the laundry bag for washing. The handful of things from the student health centre the grateful receptionist had shoved at John when Sherlock had refused to take their payment. He looks at them now, the stack of novelty condoms and packets of lube. He giggles again for no particular reason, then launches himself towards the sink for a cup of water.

God he’s drunk.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock wakes up first. His mouth feels like he ate a stick of glue. It _tastes_ like that glue missed a few vital steps in its production. He groans and rolls over and for a second he’s afraid his head will simply keep rolling, but it steadies after a minute or so and he manages to lift it high enough to look around him.

He is in the sitting room, sprawling out on the floor beside his chair. There are three empty wine bottles in his immediate line of sight, and a John Watson, head cradled on an arm and snoring on the floor beside him.

“Oh god,” Sherlock says, and it comes out in a croaking rasp. “Why.”

He pushes himself upright, fighting the sudden roiling lurch of his stomach. He stumbles to the loo where he finds himself on his knees in front of the toilet, heaving into it till there’s nothing but a fine line of spittle left, strung between his chin and the water. He thinks perhaps he’ll just stay here, maybe die a bit. He closes his eyes, convinced of the positive aspects of this idea, when a cautious hand falls on his shoulder from behind and a warm, wet towel is pressed into his hand.

Sherlock grunts, dragging it across his mouth, and when John pulls him to his feet he goes, ignoring the way the room seems to spin around him.

“Here,” John says. “Rinse your mouth. Go to bed. I’ll get you water. You’ll feel better after you’ve slept a bit long—”

The sentence cuts off abruptly and Sherlock can feel John’s body beside his suddenly freeze. He looks up questioningly to find John staring at him, a look of dawning horror edged with an unholy amusement.

“John?”

“Uh. You know what. You look awful. Let’s get you to bed,” and saying so he veers Sherlock into the bedroom and rather less than gently pushes him into the mattress. “I’ll get you water. Sleep, yeah?”

Sherlock knows he should be suspicious of the slightly manic glaze to John’s wide eyes, but he couldn’t care less right now. His head hits the pillow and a second later he feels the weight of the blanket descending onto him. When John presses a cool glass into his hand, he swallows it down in a single gulp. He is asleep again almost before his head hits the pillow.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock wakes up first the second time, too. He blinks sticky eyes open to see John’s face, open-mouthed and heavily breathing at his side. It’s warm and wonderful and the upheaval of his stomach has subsided. There is the slight throb of a headache still, but nothing that can’t be fixed with a Nurofen or two.

He sits up, his muscles still feeling slightly detached. There’s a full glass of water beside the bed and he sips it, feeling it cool and achingly good against his throat.

John mutters and sighs as Sherlock slips from under the blankets and he patters on quiet feet into the bathroom. He relieves himself at the toilet, noticing that John had cleaned up before passing out himself. He showers, feeling the hot water as absolute relief against his uneasy muscles and he stands there for a few minutes, just feeling it sluice over him, too dazed to move.

He dries himself off after, the towel rough against oversensitive skin, then goes to the sink, reaching for his toothbrush. It’s heavenly, the sharp mint in his mouth. It does more than the shower to make him feel human again, and with eyes vaguely more alert, he glances up at his haggard reflection in the mirror…and stops.

No. Oh no.

“JOHN!”

There is a thump and the sound of John stumbling frantically from entangling sheets. Bare seconds later he appears, blinking widely and dishevelled in the doorway, where he takes one look at Sherlock, toothpaste foaming at his mouth and rage etched into his face…and giggles.

“Oh, God. Sherlock. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock hollers. “SORRY?!”

“I was drunk!”

“Clearly.” Sherlock snarls.

“It’s only temporary, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowls at him and turns his glare back to the mirror above the sink, where above tired, circled eyes, stark against too-pale skin, the worst are blazoned at him in cheerful, coloured script, spelled out backwards in his reflection: “I practice safe sex!”

“Oh my god,” Sherlock says and another round of giggles spills out of John from the doorway.

“It’s just temporary,” John says again, and Sherlock turns a glare on him, watching as John struggles to stop grinning and look serious. “It was from the student clinic. Look, it’s already fading from the shower. It’ll be gone in no time—” he breaks off as the sound his phone buzzing on the nightstand reaches his ears. With a guilty, apologetic glance he goes to pick it up and Sherlock follows him into the bedroom.

“Greg,” John says into it, and Sherlock doesn’t miss the way his face goes pale and his eyes flicker guiltily to Sherlock, watching him from the doorway.

“Er. Yeah, listen. Let me check with Sherlock—”

Sherlock’s already across the room and snatching the phone from John’s startled hand. “Yes, what is it Lestrade?”

“Hello to you too, Sherlock,” Lestrade says from the other end of the line. “It’s a decapitation. Thought you’d be interested.”

“Marks on the flesh?”

“None. Not even bruising. The cut’s completely even, the spine where’s it’s been cut is absolutely smooth.”

Sherlock can feel his jaw clenching, the blood rushing to his face. The glare he directs at John actually makes John flinch.

“Unfortunately, I’ll be unavailable for a day or two,” Sherlock says.

There is a moment of stunned silence from the other end of the line. Then faint and disbelieving, the single word from Lestrade: “What?”

“Don’t be an idiot, you heard me perfectly. I’ll text you as soon as I’m available again. Goodbye, Geoff. Try not to incarcerate the wrong man without me.” And he hears the echoes of Lestrade’s protests coming down the line as he ends the call.

Beside the bed, eyes wide and lips pinched tightly shut, John is desperately trying not to laugh.

Sherlock can feel his eyes narrowing, the slow boil of his rage slowly fading away as the humour of the situation begins to reluctantly intrude. He stares at John, whose whole body gently shakes with the effort of not laughing, and he reaches a decision.

“Clothes off. Hands and knees on the bed.”

Sherlock sees the moment when John goes from trying not to laugh to suddenly completely serious. The wide eyes darken and the tightly pursed lips open with a quick inhalation. There is the briefest pause as those eyes search quickly over Sherlock’s face and Sherlock lets the smallest edge of a smile slip out, just to show John that he isn’t angry anymore and that he has nothing to fear, and with the smallest of reciprocating nods, John pulls off his clothes.

There is only sleep trousers and a loose tshirt to contend with so he is undressed in seconds, and with a last glance at Sherlock’s unyielding face, where his eyes slip inevitably up towards the jaunty declaration on his forehead, he gives one last giggle and slides on his hands and knees onto the bed.

He faces away, his arse deliberately pointed directly at Sherlock standing behind him, and when Sherlock touches him, a warm hand on John’s lower back, Sherlock feels the shiver of anticipation that runs through him.

“John,” Sherlock says, and he can hear his own voice, pitched low and dangerous, and he feels John’s instantaneous response, the way he pushes his arse up and back, offering it, and Sherlock smiles. He bends to drop a kiss, just where the cleft begins and he smells the soap on John’s skin still from an earlier shower.  He lets his tongue slip out, caressing the sensitive place and there’s the sound of a whimper from above.

“John,” he says again. “I’m missing a beheading because of you.” He dips his tongue lower, feels the shiver of response from the body under his hand. “I’m stuck. Imprisoned in my own home. For days. Because of you.”

“Sherlock,” John sighs. “Oh god, Sherlock. I really should tell you—oh god, Sherlock—You really should know that they’re really easy to remove—”

He yelps at the stinging slap that Sherlock brings down on the soft skin of arse.

“John,” Sherlock says silkily. “Did I say you could talk?”

There is a heart beat of silence, then quiet and with the slightest hint of a smirk, he hears John’s answer: “No, sir.”

Sherlock grins. “Good pet. Now. Let’s discuss how you’re planning on entertaining me…”


End file.
